Saturday 26 November 2016

Perception


My wife and a female friend were discussing where to take her dog for a walk and her friend made a throwaway comment that one end of the local park is darker than the other so is best avoided. It was a comment that appeared to mean little to them (but is, of course, loaded with complexity) but had a huge impact on me. I had never felt as if I needed to worry, ever, about where I go or when but this caveat appeared hard-wired in their brains. I realised I had an entitlement I had never thought about and was stunned to have such a clear indication, through that conversation, that it's the perception of safety that carries all the weight. One needs to feel safe irrespective of evidential statistics.
(I want to know what can be done about this. I try to teach myself about how other people might feel, I try to practise empathy, I try to remain aware of the effect my presence may have on others (as a large male out jogging in the dark, for example), I talk to my friends about their actions and their perceptions, I hope I can be supportive and encouraging to the women I know. What else can I do?)

I meet a lot of refugees through my work helping homeless people with complex needs. A Palestinian teenager came in for help recently. He knows no other human in a 2000 mile radius and the reasons he is here without his mother, father, siblings, other family members or friends are too distressing for me to have to contemplate unless it is absolutely necessary, professionally, to do so (it is). In many ways he is still a child but in other ways he has been forced into the worst aspects of adulthood that no grown-up would ever want. Before I was able to suggest taking some quiet one-to-one time to discuss how I could assist him he erupted in catharsis, spewing out some disgusting tale of dehumanising violence he had barely survived. He wanted to talk. Seemingly more than anything in his life at that time he wanted to tell me his story of vulnerability, of abuse, of escape, of his contactless family and their probable torture, stories of immolation and being buried alive. For now though he was safe. Traumatised, damaged, scared and scarred, in desperate need of intensive trauma therapy but safe.
A minute into his discussion someone else arrived at the door, another young man in dire need of help, distracted by drug use, hearing voices telling him to hurt someone and preoccupied by the persecutory paramilitary organisation that was listening to him through the electrical sockets in the walls. 

I know a woman who wanted children from when she was a child. The image she maintained with absolute clarity throughout her teenage years, her early twenties and through her thirties was of having children and being the strongest, most supportive, educational, feminist mother she could be. Her love of her dogs could only increase when she found out some years ago she could never conceive. 
She loves her dogs with an anthropomorphic connection, with all her heart. Ten months ago her oldest dog died. She continues to be affected by her grief every day, it disrupts her interactions, her socialising, her self-perception. 

I completed a mental health assessment with a middle-aged man last month. He considers himself a "high-flyer" in his work, had indulged his strong entrepreneurial streak over the years to start businesses in various countries and had maintained an internationally transient lifestyle. One day he was cycling his bike to work, skidded on a tram line and hit his head on the kerb. He received no major immediate injury but damage was nevertheless sustained in subtle neurological ways. 
Thereafter he made one or two bad financial decisions, lost work, became unattractive to businesses, his landlord and girlfriends. He returned to Belfast but there were no favours to cash in.
His physical health is not so poor, he is not addicted to alcohol or drugs, he can walk and talk and maintain a sense of autonomy. He could be considered to be in a good place, objectively, but he experiences such intense depair and loss he feels the world would be better off without him. His psychic and social fall has been from such an immense height, he feels, that the drop was further than any human should be expected to deal with.

It will be Xmas day in two weeks. I remain without Ruby. I will still smile and laugh and be happy, of sorts, but my child died and remains dead and I remain without her. All my experiences, all my ideas, all my thoughts, all the relationships, however fleeting or lengthy, however shallow or intense, I have because of her and because of her death. Whether you know it or not, whether I know it or not, everything I now am is because of her. There is no part of my existence untouched by her. This is as it should be. 
When grief doesn't disable me it still make me unable. But I will always strain to remember the invisible battles we all have, the ones we fight against parts of ourselves, and will try to empathise with the subjective experience as being the only experience that really matters. 

Saturday 12 November 2016

Quiet Activism

Civil war is raging in Syria, there are more refugees than ever, Britain is out of Europe, Trump is president. Environmental degradation is increasing at an exponential rate. 
David Bowie, Prince and Leonard Cohen died. As have Alan Rickman, Ronnie Corbett, Gene Wilder, Caroline Aherne and Victoria Wood- all were great comics and actors. 
There have been so many huge political and cultural shifts this year that have had effects on much of the world. And effects on me too. 
Every death of someone I respect but have never met makes me grieve a little. Every perceived death of cultural or political freedom makes me grieve a little. Every creative cul-de-sac makes me grieve a little. My greatest long-term worry is the destruction of the world's environment for human habitation and how this will affect my child and all others after me- this is the most serious problem the world has ever seen and most politicians display a wilful impotence for positive action. 
But grief provides a sense of impotence too, for me at least. Had Ruby not died I may have been more motivated into environmental activism, animal rights and political agitation- I was more politically active as a younger man although more politically conservative- but as I find myself moving harder to the left and towards libertarianism the older I get, the less motivated I am to be an activist. 
Or maybe this is semantics. Maybe I need a new definition of activism. My experiences have proved that only the most extrovert actions and the tiniest personal actions are the ones with greatest effect. I don't have the drive for large political actions any more- I rarely attend rallies and marches, I don't tear down posters, scream at police or conciously encourage discord- but instead I try to contribute a thousand tiny actions all pointing in the same direction to facilitate harmony. My grief has filtered out all the extraneous bullshit and the time-wasting shouting and has crystallised the importance everyday personal actions.
In short, I do what I can. And what I can do in the face of nationalism disguised as patriotism, or xenophobia disguised as border control, or exclusivity disguised as personal defence is not to shout as loudly as I can but instead live ideally, to persistently express ideas of equality across our differences and with a thousand tiny acts of tenderness. Seeds sewn often take root. 
As has been noted elsewhere, fascism doesn't arrive in jackboots with a shaved head, it arrives smiling as a friend. And when good people smile back and stare at fascists square in the eyes, fascists avert their gaze. I don't want to define myself by what I am not (atheist, anti-fascist) but by what I am- a humanist and a human trying their best. Scarred maybe, forever a little bruised and sometimes more delicate and more anti-social than I look. But I am tough and flexible and I am driven by hope and by love. 

Sunday 9 October 2016

William Blake - Auguries of Innocence

I continue to survive one of the most profoundly violent and tectonic changes in an adults' life- the death of my daughter. There have been times I have fallen off the Earth or been diconnected from normal human warmth or can only identify myself as a fissure through a cliff face. 
One way I cope is to appreciate those things I previously considered irrelevant- things too small or too large to apparently be of significance to my life- but I now realise can have an immense effect. 
I was reminded strongly of this when I recently thought about the William Blake poem "Auguries of Innocence" which most people studied at GCSE/O-level at school and which I have always liked. 
The poem now makes perfect sense. I had previously thought it was just a slightly hippyish poem about peace and love but now understand the importance of juxtaposing the actions we may take on one line with the inevitable result of our cruelty or mistreatment in the next. It reads like a nursery rhyme (and is full of imagery of animals) which add to a slight feeling of unease that increases as I leave the initial opening lines, which echo the beauty of the small things in nature, and continue through the poem and its lessons on the risks of becoming innured to evil. It is a satire on the rights of humans. 
I had forgotten how much I love it and I now realise how relevant it is to the world around me. 

To see a World in a Grain of Sand 
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower 
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand 
And Eternity in an hour
A Robin Red breast in a Cage 
Puts all Heaven in a Rage 
A Dove house filld with Doves & Pigeons 
Shudders Hell thr' all its regions 
A dog starvd at his Masters Gate 
Predicts the ruin of the State 
A Horse misusd upon the Road 
Calls to Heaven for Human blood 
Each outcry of the hunted Hare 
A fibre from the Brain does tear 
A Skylark wounded in the wing 
A Cherubim does cease to sing 
The Game Cock clipd & armd for fight 
Does the Rising Sun affright 
Every Wolfs & Lions howl 
Raises from Hell a Human Soul 
The wild deer, wandring here & there 
Keeps the Human Soul from Care 
The Lamb misusd breeds Public Strife 
And yet forgives the Butchers knife 
The Bat that flits at close of Eve 
Has left the Brain that wont Believe
The Owl that calls upon the Night 
Speaks the Unbelievers fright
He who shall hurt the little Wren 
Shall never be belovd by Men 
He who the Ox to wrath has movd 
Shall never be by Woman lovd
The wanton Boy that kills the Fly 
Shall feel the Spiders enmity 
He who torments the Chafers Sprite 
Weaves a Bower in endless Night 
The Catterpiller on the Leaf 
Repeats to thee thy Mothers grief 
Kill not the Moth nor Butterfly 
For the Last Judgment draweth nigh 
He who shall train the Horse to War 
Shall never pass the Polar Bar 
The Beggars Dog & Widows Cat 
Feed them & thou wilt grow fat 
The Gnat that sings his Summers Song 
Poison gets from Slanders tongue 
The poison of the Snake & Newt 
Is the sweat of Envys Foot 
The poison of the Honey Bee 
Is the Artists Jealousy
The Princes Robes & Beggars Rags 
Are Toadstools on the Misers Bags 
A Truth thats told with bad intent 
Beats all the Lies you can invent 
It is right it should be so 
Man was made for Joy & Woe 
And when this we rightly know 
Thro the World we safely go 
Joy & Woe are woven fine 
A Clothing for the soul divine 
Under every grief & pine 
Runs a joy with silken twine 
The Babe is more than swadling Bands
Throughout all these Human Lands 
Tools were made & Born were hands 
Every Farmer Understands
Every Tear from Every Eye 
Becomes a Babe in Eternity 
This is caught by Females bright 
And returnd to its own delight 
The Bleat the Bark Bellow & Roar 
Are Waves that Beat on Heavens Shore 
The Babe that weeps the Rod beneath 
Writes Revenge in realms of Death 
The Beggars Rags fluttering in Air
Does to Rags the Heavens tear 
The Soldier armd with Sword & Gun 
Palsied strikes the Summers Sun
The poor Mans Farthing is worth more 
Than all the Gold on Africs Shore
One Mite wrung from the Labrers hands 
Shall buy & sell the Misers Lands 
Or if protected from on high 
Does that whole Nation sell & buy 
He who mocks the Infants Faith 
Shall be mockd in Age & Death 
He who shall teach the Child to Doubt 
The rotting Grave shall neer get out 
He who respects the Infants faith 
Triumphs over Hell & Death 
The Childs Toys & the Old Mans Reasons 
Are the Fruits of the Two seasons 
The Questioner who sits so sly 
Shall never know how to Reply 
He who replies to words of Doubt 
Doth put the Light of Knowledge out 
The Strongest Poison ever known 
Came from Caesars Laurel Crown 
Nought can Deform the Human Race 
Like to the Armours iron brace 
When Gold & Gems adorn the Plow 
To peaceful Arts shall Envy Bow 
A Riddle or the Crickets Cry 
Is to Doubt a fit Reply 
The Emmets Inch & Eagles Mile 
Make Lame Philosophy to smile 
He who Doubts from what he sees 
Will neer Believe do what you Please 
If the Sun & Moon should Doubt 
Theyd immediately Go out 
To be in a Passion you Good may Do 
But no Good if a Passion is in you 
The Whore & Gambler by the State 
Licencd build that Nations Fate 
The Harlots cry from Street to Street 
Shall weave Old Englands winding Sheet 
The Winners Shout the Losers Curse 
Dance before dead Englands Hearse 
Every Night & every Morn 
Some to Misery are Born 
Every Morn and every Night 
Some are Born to sweet delight 
Some are Born to sweet delight 
Some are Born to Endless Night 
We are led to Believe a Lie 
When we see not Thro the Eye 
Which was Born in a Night to perish in a Night 
When the Soul Slept in Beams of Light 
God Appears & God is Light 
To those poor Souls who dwell in Night 
But does a Human Form Display 
To those who Dwell in Realms of day


Saturday 24 September 2016

Work smarter not harder

Everything has changed in the last three and a half years since Ruby died. There are many things I will now never be able to do, there are new obstacles I will need to traverse forever (depression, mainly) and there are new considerations that demand necessary psychic work. 
I have had to be much more flexible in many aspects of my working practise and have had to deeply consider not only how I do what I do but whether I have wanted to continue being a nurse at all. It was disconcerting to scrutinise the initial reasons for choosing nursing as a career, reasons I have barely examined for twenty years, but it was one of a thousand corners of my current life worth reconsideration. In the last three and a half years I have critically looked at other ways I may be able to make money- baker, writer, bicycle maker, plumber, fireman- and will continue to consider these and others over time. For now though I will continue nursing and working with homeless people in the city as I have for the last ten years. 
I used to have a very clear work/life border. The second my work phone was turned off, I was not working. My work brain would easily disconnect and then it was time for real life, for my family, for me. 
But now the boundaries are blurry. The old coping mechanism of creating an obvious dichotomy began to break down after Ruby died and have been gradually replaced with a stratification of work and "mainly not work". There is less separation now. 
Objectively it makes perfect sense- I enjoy nursing, it is a vocation, the qualities one needs to do it well are qualities I naturally have or have consistently cultivated over the years, I am a nurse and also a Nurse- but it took the trauma of losing Ruby to subjectively understand the importance of appreciating that me, the nurse, is the same as me, Ben Dench and not a separate "other" attached to a job. 
The pragmatics have changed too. I see fewer patients face to face than I had previously, much of my contact is now via telephone, text or email. For many years it was an unquestionable demand of my work to see all patients in person for as long as they needed, regular meetings lasting one or two hours. This way of working, for who I am now and the way I work, is not constructive. 
My work is now less face-to-face and more by telephone, email or sometimes a text. This can be as supportive as face to face but keeps me in greater control of my caseload and relationships and, quite simply, keeps me at work. A two hour face to face meeting with a client can sometimes be replaced with a ten minute phone conversation if very well timed and if the subject matter is closely planned (with obvious flexibility within the subject matter of course). A well-placed text message can sometimes be more galvanising than a tear-filled hour together.
My clients were most often were my priority. Now it is my colleagues. If staff are well supported and cared-for almost any difficulty can be dealt with. I have had no pay rise since the day I started ten years ago- an issue for millions of people of course- but I continue in this team for two main reasons- the interesting patients and the lovely people I work with. Every team has its drama-queens, it's cliques and its tensions but these are simply one of the many chemicals in the compound glue that bonds every group. I put psychic effort into encouraging the warmth and relationships in the team to facilitate these bonds. 
And it does take great effort at times. I am not naturally sociable, generally preferring my own company, and coping with depression and grief means constant endeavour. But when my team works together, supports each other, volunteers their time and minds, it feels we can deal with any difficulty from terrible salaries to patients' threats to the death of a colleague. And my grief. 
As always in my grief navigation is key. Putting the effort into navigating these new pathways through work and life have resulted in a stable coexistence which, in turn, feeds into my own abilities to cope. Work works and life is easier. 


Monday 19 September 2016

Ruby's 15th birthday

It was Ruby's 15th birthday last week. On the last two birthdays that Ruby has not been here Claire and I used our time as constructively as we could by raising money for charity. The first year we cycled around Belfast and the second birthday we hiked across the hills and very muddy fields of Antrim. We have planned a fund-raising hike in a month or two and so decided to keep this birthday for ourselves. 
We had plans for the day, we always do, and I would advise anyone in a similar position to do likewise. Prior to the day we realised how useful it had been for us to be physically active, using our time creatively for the good of others (the genuineness of this "atruism" needs questioning, of course, as we also gained so much from the activities) and being distracted with company from friends or strangers. We never lose the feelings of loss, how can we, but on her birthday we think of her happiness and aliveness.
But grief is predictably unpredictable. This year we had few plans. I managed a short jog in the morning. We went to her favourite park, Crawfordsburn Country Park, and put flowers on "Ruby's Bench" which we had made and placed in a beautiful remote spot of the park a few months after she died. We went out for a quiet lunch at her favourite pizza restaurant and had a glass of wine at home in the evening. We weren't very active, we weren't sociable, we didn't feel like being creative or proactive or supportive of others. We were quiet and barely reflective. We were together though and this was the only thing we knew we definitely needed. 
The most affecting difference this year is the exhaustion. I have not been tired- I have jogged twice, 10km and 20km, I have been for a long cycle ride in the lovely warm sunshine, I have been for a number of walks here and there- but my grief has had a deeper sense of fatigue, dulling my focus, disconnecting me from others. Last week either side of Ruby's birthday, just for a few days, I lived in a cloud of unreality. I could only consider aspects of base survival- eating, exercise, sleep and Ruby- and nothing else mattered. 
This sense of acute and incongruous introversion is not new as I deal with my grief, I have felt it many times before and it has its place in my list of unconscious coping mechanisms. It is a common and very successful method of defence in coping with trauma and grief for many people. The surprise is not that it has happened but that it happened now, after three years and as I was trying to prepare to cope with Ruby's birthday. Grief's predictable lack of prediction. 
This week I am not drained of energy. I am now off work for a day or two because of a bug and high temperature not because of my grief and weariness. Now I am simply tired, achy and sore, a normal and natural physical reaction to a normal physical illness. My treatment is paracetamol, fluids and rest. Visible, conspicuous, empirical, easy. 
I would rather have this physical ill-health with all its treatments and inevitable cessation than the wretched and difficult surprises of never-ending grief. 



Saturday 10 September 2016

A big long list of nice things to do for yourself

Bake a cake
Prepare
Play with a child
Learn how to use your water stop tap
Copy your front door key
Have salad
Walk
Say no
Know who loves you
Write a letter
Be randomly kind
Make a positively critical complaint
Do something new
Exercise your brain
Listen to an entire album- preferably sweeping and classical- from beginning to end
Appreciate animals too small to usually notice
Stare at the sky
Play
Dance alone 
Read non-fiction
Be a feminist
Write a poem
Drink posh water (bottled, ice and a slice)
Grind fresh spices
Listen
Know a great joke
Be body-positive 
Smell good
Have a movie night at home with popcorn and all the trimmings
Give someone a compliment
Look people in the eye
Go to bed, and rise, early
Watch no screens for one day a week
Fantasise
Learn the rules to a complex card game
Note wild flowers
Ride a horse
Run on the beach
Watch sunrise
Ring your mum
Carry a photograph
Go for a walk in the rain
Stare at a painting for more than three minutes
Randomly flick through a paper dictionary
Appreciate shelter, sanitation, readily available food and antibiotics
Note anniversaries and birthdays
Make pizza from scratch
Breathe deeply and stand straight
Stop apologising
Speak out when something is wrong 
Eat less meat and more plants
Paint a fence
Question all authority
Be kind, always









Thursday 1 September 2016

Mary

My friend and colleague Mary died last week. She had been unwell with cancer for some months but was very tough and very resilient. She remained unangry and full of love until the very end, wishing only beauty and kindness for everyone she knew and also for those she didn't. She was an atheist in a foxhole, free from self-appointed courage, lacking in uncouth stoicism and utterly honest. She was 59. She didn't drink alcohol, didn't smoke, took no drugs, didn't eat meat, she ran, climbed mountains, lived outdoors, hiked hills and lived as healthy a life as anyone could. Only weeks before she died she asked "why me for Christs sake?" and then she answered her own question "I suppose the answer is banal- why not me? Cancer does not discriminate". 
She was a social worker for decades. In that time she had helped vulnerable children at risk from abusive adults, homeless drug and alcohol addicts, people with severe mental health issues and physical disabilities in need of assistance, ex-offenders who, although were among the most reviled members of society, she treated with a great level of regard and as having unquestionably redemptive qualities. She helped young people cope with the stress of unexpected parenthood, she helped refugees settle into their new, unfamiliar country, she helped the most scared and frightened women who had the courage to leave violent men. She was an advocate for those without a voice, a hand to hold for those weakened by fear, a crutch for those crippled by illness. She was the only worker I have ever had the fortune to watch in action who had maintained the supposedly unacheivable goal of counsellors and support workers- that is, unconditional positive regard. Along with empathy, warmth, genuineness and a few other qualities, positive regard is seen as an unacheivable goal to be constantly aimed towards, without condition. It is near impossible- we are all prejudiced and we set conditions for all relationships, professional or otherwise. But Mary was the one worker who got the closest to this ideal- she only ever saw the potential of clients and the unfortunate reasons they ended up in need of assistance, never dwelling their lack of love or appropriate behaviour. When we discussed the kind of help we might offer someone who had done the most violent, awful things to other people, to young children maybe, she would say "The things he has been through would have to be so traumatic to have made him this way". 
Mary reminded me how far you can go with love, with respect, with tenderness, and how well other people respond to it. She once told me that to facilitate other people's level of trust you had to trust them and let them trust you. She was so charismatic, without being overbearing, anyone who had met her would remember her forever. 
She would have helped thousands of people over the years. Some of them would have been very young, would have children and maybe grandchildren by now. All those initial contacts by Mary would have helped them and then their friends, then their relatives, their neighbours, their community. Also their relationships, their autonomy, their self-determination would have positively affected. Thousands of lives have been transformed by Mary's intervention. 
She will receive no accolade, no prize, no recognition. No MBE for her (although this is also impossible as she was a republican and staunch anti-monarchist). As the poem below states "everywhere life is full of heroism". Mary is the epitome of the everyday hero without whom society could not function. It is likely I will think of her every day of my life. 
Her funeral was yesterday and she had asked me to recite this poem which I was honoured to do.



Desiderata

Go placidly amid the noise and the haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons; they are vexatious to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter, for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be.
And whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul. With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

by Max Ehrmann (1872-1945)


Mary Ozanne 1957-2016

Wednesday 20 July 2016

We don't see the world how it is, we see it how we are

It feels as though the world is so uncertain of itself these days. Like a celebrity who is famous for being famous the social planet feels lacking in introspection but burdened with a glut of self-confidence. Earth feels insecure. 
There has been so much violence reported in the media recently, mainstream and otherwise, that I could be mistaken for believing the world is increasing in aggressive tendencies every day. Rationally I know this not to be true (Steven Pinker's brilliant research on this exact topic, The Better Angels of our Nature, is well worth a read and explains the many ways the world is decreasing in violence) but there have been a number of spontaneous violent incidences recently, particularly in France but also USA where, even in 2016, attention still needs focusing onto racial equality. Amazingly, stupefyingly, in a day of 24 hour information, cameras on smartphones and immediate access to the international internet browsed by my five year old son and 100 year old granddads (moral arguments notwithstanding) many police remain oppressively authoritarian and disproportionally violent towards black people. 
And of course there is trouble elsewhere, where there is always trouble. Aleppo, where some of my refugee clients at work are from, is presently under siege from its dictator and under the international media radar. There is little food, clean water, sanitation and energy for the city and many people are expected to die from starvation, disease and violence in the next month or so in a country already traumatised from a brutal devil. 
Humans. These are humans, the ones suffering and the ones torturing. 

When I moved to Northern Ireland from London fifteen years ago I was shocked by the visceral openness with which acts of aggression were described- the tarring and feathering, the "punishment beatings", the "six-pack" shootings (The details are as horrific as you can imagine). There is a propensity to accept a level of violence as normal here that I am not inured to and don't want to be. Only this morning I discussed summer holidays with work colleagues who stabbed the conversation, freely and without irony, with stories of recent sexual assaults and limb dismemberment. They were unfazed, I was nauseous with the incongruity. I have no evidence that a tectonic societal shift towards discomfort with violence is happening but I hope and believe that it might be. 

There are more guns in America than  people. And it has a level of violent crime to match, without prejudice, that figure. Many other countries with large numbers of guns have very low levels of violent crime- Switzerland, all of Scandinavia, Iceland, etc. There is a disgusting ease with which America dismisses its self-harm and an equally disgusting ease it accepts violence as being stratified in its foundations. Every single day humans are shot and killed in America. Why is it so violent? Of course I have no real idea but I do know I am saddened about its violent cultural influences on the world and itself and I am worried for my sons future and the future of other young people if products like this are accepted as normal-
Holywoods' summer blockbuster this year, the movie of which it is demanded makes hundreds of millions of dollars, the movie which has been designed at the lowest common denominator and aimed at teenagers, the movie advertised on every bus passing through my home city for all to see is called "Suicide Squad". Its subject matter is diametrically opposed to suicide, most of the characters being comic book psychopaths whose primary thoughts are about self-preservation. The main character looks like a rock singer (cool) , the female character is, of course, sexy but child-like (cool) there are superpowers (fire from his hands? Cool). There appears to be no irony and no satire. It could have had a thousand alternative titles. 
We barely need not ask ourselves why young people regularly shoot other young people to death in a culture that beautifies conflict. 

I am not so ignorant or niaive that I believe there to be binary explanations for cruelty ("it's the media, it's the right-wingers, it's video games"). I have read research providing evidence that the world is getting more peaceful, that movies, games and heavy metal do not make people violent, that having guns does not necessarily mean more murders are committed. I know all these myths have been disproved again and again and still they persist. But I worry that a continuous feed of negative information can act as fuel, if not validation, for anti-social behaviour. 
I am making no grand statements, I am only sharing how I feel. It is the nature of depression, maybe it is the nature of grief, maybe it is just natural. I put so much psychic effort into maintaining a sense of wellness and trying to work through my grief that I tire at times. I then become too affected by perceived slights, injustice and cruelty. 
It doesn't last, it isn't my default. And then I return to the work of trying to be normal. 

"We don't see the world how it is, we see the world how we are" -Anais Nin



Monday 20 June 2016

Recent thoughts

Father's Day 
It was recently Father' s Day. I was given a lie-in (we take turns at the weekend) and Tom made me the most perfect, beautiful card any son has ever given his father in the full history of ridiculous tradition. Maybe this wasn't the best card ever but the jolt in my heart from being given the card is an unexplainable joy understood by other loving and loved fathers. I received one card fewer than I wanted. 

Ageing
I have jogged to and from work recently, 14k each way. I also cycle in and out when I can and when the weather is kind. I can't afford a sports car and was warned off motorbikes after a bone crunching crash 14 years ago so I ride bicycles. I don't wear Lycra, I don't ride bikes with drop handlebars and I only ride bakes that are customised or bespoke hand-built (by me). I am proud to actively avoid the MAMIL label (Middle Aged Man In Lycra). 
I recently got an unusually positioned body piercing (septum), my first since youth, and a prominently placed but delicate tattoo, my first since youth. 
I have taken a new young worker under my wing. She reminds me of myself at her age- hopeful, fiercely inclusive, idealistic, a constructive agitator- and is only a few years older than Ruby would be now. 
I avoid bread, rice, pasta and potatoes, I eat no meat, I try to include chia seeds in every meal. I refuse all but the best coffee and rate pink gin as the pinnacle of alcoholic sophistication. 
I buy jazz records and have restarted a love affair with my turntable. 
I wear a cap and shorts and trainers. This has been my uniform of choice for many years but now, at 42, I know how ridiculous I look. I realised that the over couloured trainers I collect- one of my few habits- are worn only by young women along with equally sporty clothing or by middle-aged men who fool themselves they get away with it because they are being lightly ironic. 

Silences
The silence of being together with someone I love- where noise is an unnecessary obstacle to connection. The silence can be still and deep like a dark sea when mutually agreed abatement provides a shared calmnes. Or it can be dynamic and clattering like a trout-filled stream, where a breath is slightly deeper than usual or an arm is resting upturned, taut not limp. The silence speaks to us, it is of itself, the third member of our group. 
The silence of the studious office, the necessary silence of concentration and where productivity is a result of obvious focus. Every hour or two my thoughts suddenly break free, very suddenly and without warning, to utterly unconnected ideas, often Ruby. The dissonance between the professional and the intensely private thoughts can be jarring but then I realise, of course, this is the regular unpredictability of grief. And it should come as no surprise, but always does, that such apparently opposite cognitive functions- the professional and the personal- can occur almost simultaneously. 
The discomforting silence of other people attempting to recognise my grief and empathise. At times when I am more fragile they are surely well meant but rarely sound platitudinous. 
The silence of being alone which is an unhurried but considered quiet. This silence is always welcome and, increasingly as I age, useful. 


Sunday 15 May 2016

Rediscovering photography

I have recently rediscovered my love of photography and bought a decent Canon digital SLR. A few photos here. 

Instagram.com/bigbendyben 








Sunday 24 April 2016

Prince


I doubt I will write much over the following few weeks. I am fatigued through simply coping with grief, it is the third anniversary of Ruby's death in two weeks. In addition I am very concerned about a friend who has cancer and is undergoing aggressive chemotherapy. 
I have also been affected by the death of Prince, my favourite musician throughout my life and the only celebrity I have cried about when he died a few days ago. He was the first musician I ever really loved, he was always playing on the stereo through my formative years, he was there through my first kiss, my first girlfriend (and every one since), when I was a spotty, fat, bullied teenager he was the one musician who let me know I was right. I was right even though I felt weird and sometimes disconnected and an outsider. He wasn't androgynous, he didn't have a brand of studied playfulness around gender and sexual stereotypes like many other musicians but instead he was introspective in his exploration and was encouraging others to do the same. I understood this. He gave me permission to appreciate boundaries as being arbitrary and showed that borders always need pressure for positive change. He sang about AIDS and safe-sex when I was starting relationships, he sang about hip-hop, the Internet, the destructive drugs of the day and the impotence of international politicians compared to the extraordinary energy and love between normal people, worldwide, irrespective of supposed differences. He sang about pure and simple fun. He stood for many things that I stand for- he wanted to be funky, to be silly, to be supportive and loving and to be kind to everyone, friends and strangers alike. Prince was there when I needed to feel seductive, when I had a broken heart, when I felt alone, when I was happy too. 
I have played Prince to help me through my grief as Ruby was also a fan. She and I would play "Raspberry Beret" driving the car, singing as loud as we could. We would dance in the kitchen to "Housequake" or "Kiss", perfectly funky pop classics. 
I am thinking about Prince for hours each day, I am revisiting his music, I have been watching his films and documentaries on TV, I have been talking and talking about him to my wife, my friends, my work colleagues. I am, in truth, grieving for him. Slightly. But genuinely. 
The deepest reason I am sad though is that his death has made me aware that there will never be another musician in my life who will mean as much as him. No other musician will ever be able to say the things he said at the times he said it.
Musically, my life is only travelling downhill from here and any pleasure I get from music from now on will be for reasons other than a deep personal connection. 
This is my Elvis or Lennon moment, the events that hugely affect the generation above me (although I was only four years old when Elvis died I remember my mum being very upset- she still talks affectionately about him and always will). But at least I can say I was alive at a time when Prince was on Earth with the same pride as when Mozart was here or Jimi Hendrix or Miles Davis. 
And I have the music and the memories. 

Saturday 16 April 2016

Anhedonia

In three weeks it will be the three year anniversary of Rubys death. 
I had planned to write an entry about Aniais Nin's expectation of writers to express things that non-writers cannot. She wrote about the duty of a writer to say the unsayable or the unsaid and I was initially hoping to expand on this idea with relation to my own experiences- navigating my way through a fortunately rare type of grief and hoping to express some of how I feel and think and what I have become. Then I realised I wouldn't be able to write about this hideous capability because I am struggling to keep upright and to keep moving forward. In fact I am struggling just to be normal these days. 
Then the final realisation revealed itself to me tonight- of course I can write about things other people don't know about including those struggles and the sheer psychic effort necessary to stay afloat. If I am struggling at the moment I should make an effort to communicate this struggle. 

I have finite cognitive capabilities. Maybe this is normal, maybe I am particularly witless or limited by poor genes or I ignored my fancy education due to bullying. Whatever the reason I am often torn by the dissonance of knowing that my intense curiosity is only matched by an awareness of the limits of my understanding. 
Recently I have been unable to enjoy anything. This lack of pleasure ("anhedonia" to psychiatrists) is primarily indicative of clinical depression but also, of course, grief. It isn't persistent or even consistent and it takes hold of me only at times I have to put particular work into maintaining an even keel when I have to labour towards normality. And, my god, the effort. At times like these it takes all my reasoning to appear acceptable to others around me who rely on me and look to me. I have to be conciously aware of each sentence I say, my body language, the nuances of my communication to my colleagues, my friends, my family, my patients.  I have to prioritise my energy focusing on my external life to the detriment of own joys and pleasures. There is nothing altruistic about this, I do not do this purposely for the good of others but it is simple self-preservation. As long as my shells' integrity is maintained the internal mess can reorganise, recover. 
Last weekend I received a book and a record I had waited weeks to arrive from USA. I also bought a fancy new digital SLR camera as I had been suspecting for a few years that my teenage passion for photography had been reignited. Claire and I were also looking at each other in a way we hadn't for a long time, as if we were young again, and my son Tom was regularly calling my name. All was well. I should have been comfortable, maybe content, maybe even happy at times. Instead my mood was flat and I found it a great effort to become interested in anything. Anhedonia. 
I am lucky in many ways, I know that I am. I do know this and regularly appreciate it. One of the many ways I am lucky is that I have an awareness that most shaded areas of my life will have light again. I know my shadows will lift and the breeze will blow away the clouds covering the sun. I will experience pleasure again. 
I will read my book, the one I waited weeks for. I will have hours and hours of pleasure listening to my greatly desired Count Basie record imported from USA under strong recommendation from Jazzy John, a friend who has forgotten more about jazz than I'll ever know. I will get pleasure concentrating on technical aspects of shutter speeds and lens apertures and ISO film sensitivity of my new camera and, of course, the almost spiritual bliss I get from photographic beauty. I will look at Claire again that way. And I will get get that innate paternal thrill from hearing my son say "daddy". 
So what do I do? As always with my grief I have to put the hours in. I have to navigate. So I work work work. I consider, I talk, I run, I look after myself. I put effort into enjoying my own company. I have a little bit of good gin, good coffee, good food. I prioritise strictly, I say no. I wait. I am formulaic when necessary, I improvise when necessary.
I remind myself that this is a natural long-term variation in my mood and that it will leave me soon. The occasional drudgery of simple existence can have a high psychic price of emotional exhaustion, relational distance and anhedonia. But it will pass.